hills deepened in color. Closer. But the hunters were closer too—close enough now for Jessica to identify the creatures they rode.
“Marabunta!” she said, standing loosely, looking back, dragging furnaced air into her lungs.
Logan had also stopped. Now he twisted toward her, questioning the word.
“Warrior ants,” she said. “That’s what they’re called by the Masai.”
He squinted at them in disbelief. “But they—they’re the size of horses! ”
“Could be a mutation,” said Jess. “Insects can survive when animals can’t.”
“Keep going,” Logan told her. “We can make it. We’re almost there.”
They continued to run, throats hot, tongues swollen, their eyes stinging with salt—faint with heat exhaustion. And Logan thought, This is how it was for Doyle, in the desert. Hunters behind with death in their hands and no future ahead, the sun raw on his back, pain racking his legs.
And then, in a final miraculous surge, they were into the blue hills.
Shade. Coolness. Relief.
But no time to rest.
Now a boulder-filled streambed, carpeted in dry white pebbles, with interlacing brush and trees so thickly massed that a tunnel of green formed around them; the smell of wild growth was overpowering, in direct contrast to the arid, burned-ash smell of the plain.
Into high papyrus grass, flowing up five feet above their heads, past yellow-blossomed thorn, around giant trees whose vein-tangled roots snagged at their shoes.
Now into a steep-plunging ravine, grasping at vines to slow their descent, stumbling, sliding downward along a sandy ridge.
At the bottom, in the thick dry silt, under the shade of wide high-trunked trees, they fell to their knees, fighting for breath, holding on to each other like lost children.
“Something…to…” Logan found it almost impossible to form words; his lips were split and bleeding,
“…use.”
“To use?” Jessica looked at him in confusion. “Against them…to…fight them.”
She watched him uproot one of the heavy, long-stalked reeds that grew in profusion along the side of the ravine. From his bodyshirt Logan withdrew a jagged-edged bone fragment which he’d found on one of the ancient animal trails. Using strips of vine, he lashed this sharp bone to the end of the reed.
“Spear!” He waved it in triumph.
A sudden spill of gravel and loose stones from the upper ledge of the ravine. The hunters!
Logan put a hand on Jessica’s shoulder, drawing her silently back into the blue-black shadow of the reeds.
Where they waited.
If I can get one of them with this, Logan told himself, gripping his crude weapon, then I can use his spear on the others. I can handle three of them.
But even if you’re successful, an inner voice told him, more will come. They’ll keep coming, by threes, until they kill you. No way to win. If Doyle had killed both of us back on the desert, more Sandmen would have come. The system works for the hunters, not the hunted.
No way to win.
They had circled, come in from the far side, picking their way carefully along the powdery-dry bed of the ravine, knowing that their quarry was hiding here, run to ground and exhausted, while they were fresh and full of the hunt.
They scanned every thrust of rock, every ridge, every ledge and tree shadow, spears firm in their burnished hands. It was good to hunt again, good to ride the swift marabunta after the condemned ones, good to trail and trap and kill.
Their leader was Duma, named for the cheetah. Tall and slim-bodied, as were all his people, he sat tree-straight in the ant’s high saddle, hair swinging behind his shoulders in a roped braid. Raised tribal scars marked his chest and forehead. Duma had been on many hunts, and his skill with a spear was unmatched. Never had Duma missed a living target.
He was the son of their chief, Nyoka, and proud father of the boy who rode beside him this day: eight-year-old Swala, a handsome youth, lithe and quick—and aptly named for the
“Marabunta!” she said, standing loosely, looking back, dragging furnaced air into her lungs.
Logan had also stopped. Now he twisted toward her, questioning the word.
“Warrior ants,” she said. “That’s what they’re called by the Masai.”
He squinted at them in disbelief. “But they—they’re the size of horses! ”
“Could be a mutation,” said Jess. “Insects can survive when animals can’t.”
“Keep going,” Logan told her. “We can make it. We’re almost there.”
They continued to run, throats hot, tongues swollen, their eyes stinging with salt—faint with heat exhaustion. And Logan thought, This is how it was for Doyle, in the desert. Hunters behind with death in their hands and no future ahead, the sun raw on his back, pain racking his legs.
And then, in a final miraculous surge, they were into the blue hills.
Shade. Coolness. Relief.
But no time to rest.
Now a boulder-filled streambed, carpeted in dry white pebbles, with interlacing brush and trees so thickly massed that a tunnel of green formed around them; the smell of wild growth was overpowering, in direct contrast to the arid, burned-ash smell of the plain.
Into high papyrus grass, flowing up five feet above their heads, past yellow-blossomed thorn, around giant trees whose vein-tangled roots snagged at their shoes.
Now into a steep-plunging ravine, grasping at vines to slow their descent, stumbling, sliding downward along a sandy ridge.
At the bottom, in the thick dry silt, under the shade of wide high-trunked trees, they fell to their knees, fighting for breath, holding on to each other like lost children.
“Something…to…” Logan found it almost impossible to form words; his lips were split and bleeding,
“…use.”
“To use?” Jessica looked at him in confusion. “Against them…to…fight them.”
She watched him uproot one of the heavy, long-stalked reeds that grew in profusion along the side of the ravine. From his bodyshirt Logan withdrew a jagged-edged bone fragment which he’d found on one of the ancient animal trails. Using strips of vine, he lashed this sharp bone to the end of the reed.
“Spear!” He waved it in triumph.
A sudden spill of gravel and loose stones from the upper ledge of the ravine. The hunters!
Logan put a hand on Jessica’s shoulder, drawing her silently back into the blue-black shadow of the reeds.
Where they waited.
If I can get one of them with this, Logan told himself, gripping his crude weapon, then I can use his spear on the others. I can handle three of them.
But even if you’re successful, an inner voice told him, more will come. They’ll keep coming, by threes, until they kill you. No way to win. If Doyle had killed both of us back on the desert, more Sandmen would have come. The system works for the hunters, not the hunted.
No way to win.
They had circled, come in from the far side, picking their way carefully along the powdery-dry bed of the ravine, knowing that their quarry was hiding here, run to ground and exhausted, while they were fresh and full of the hunt.
They scanned every thrust of rock, every ridge, every ledge and tree shadow, spears firm in their burnished hands. It was good to hunt again, good to ride the swift marabunta after the condemned ones, good to trail and trap and kill.
Their leader was Duma, named for the cheetah. Tall and slim-bodied, as were all his people, he sat tree-straight in the ant’s high saddle, hair swinging behind his shoulders in a roped braid. Raised tribal scars marked his chest and forehead. Duma had been on many hunts, and his skill with a spear was unmatched. Never had Duma missed a living target.
He was the son of their chief, Nyoka, and proud father of the boy who rode beside him this day: eight-year-old Swala, a handsome youth, lithe and quick—and aptly named for the
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